River of Blood
by kishijoten
Summary: When strange things start happening to 18-year-old Jordan Parker, she begins an investigation into her family's past that leads her down a path she could never have imagined -- even in her darkest nightmares. Bookverse through Small Favor. OFC-centric.
1. Chapter 1

I grew up in a small town in the Pineywoods of East Texas

I grew up in a small town in the Pineywoods of East Texas. My mother was quiet and unassuming, my father hardworking, my two older brothers bossy and overprotective. My brothers and I went to a small town school - large enough to not be consolidated, but only just - during the week while my dad worked for a local contractor and my mom took care of the house and us kids. Saturdays were for family, for rest, for play, for helping dad with his special projects around the house, and for catching up on chores and homework. Sundays were for church and 'fellowshipping' (what the grown-ups in the church called the time we all spent stuffing our faces with fried chicken and homemade biscuits on the church lawn, followed by the kids playing tag while the parents sat in the shade talking).

I was ten years old before I found out that I was adopted. On one hand, it didn't really come as much of a shock since I looked nothing like the rest of my family. They were a motley collection of blondes and redheads; my own ebony mop of curls stood out like a beacon in the midst of them. But on the other hand, I guess I was kind of surprised; ten years of hearing and reading stories where adoptive parents were either horrible monsters or came sweeping in after a lifetime of hardship to whisk the hero of the story away to riches beyond imagining doesn't exactly prepare a kid to find out that the very normal, very loving people who raised her aren't her 'real' parents. It didn't take me long to come to terms with the fact, though; after all, it didn't really change anything. My family was my family, regardless of the circumstances of my birth.

I was eighteen before I actually thought too deeply about my being adopted. It started just after I graduated high school, when things that I couldn't explain started happening. The people around me came up with explanations - a massive burst of adrenaline allowed me to race faster than should be humanly possibly to pull one of the neighbor kids out of the path of a delivery truck, for instance - but they weren't the ones experiencing the weirdness. They weren't the ones with the strange rolling itch under their skin every time one of these bizarre occurrences took place. And they weren't the ones who had everyone beginning to look at them like they were some sort of freak.

Not knowing at all what I expected to find, I decided to search for information on my birth parents. I don't think that I believed I'd actually find an explanation for my freakishness. Maybe I was just hoping to find someone who'd had to learn to live with the same weird feelings and abilities. Whatever the reason, I was determined to find out where I had come from.

My search for my biological parents took me away from Texas for the first time in my life. Almost a year after the strange itch had found its way under my skin, a woman from the big Catholic church in Dallas where I'd turned up one summer night came forward - off the record - and pointed me toward Walt Disney World, of all places. At the time, I wasn't too thrilled with the idea of going off into the unknown alone. Later, I would come to be very glad that I had. If I hadn't gone to Orlando, or if I hadn't gone alone, I probably would have been with the people I love the most when the Hunger took me for the first time.

I knew before I ever left the airport that my visit to the Happiest Place on Earth would be nothing short of a nightmare. We landed in the middle of a thunderstorm, the turbulence scaring the bejeezus out of me and the rough landing doing nothing to calm my nerves. Then there was the cab ride to my hotel, also in the pouring rain. That short trip was even more frightening than the flight had been, but I made it to the hotel in one piece. Then I got to argue with the front desk clerk for half an hour about my room reservation; apparently hotel policy stated that anyone under 21 couldn't rent a room there without a parent or guardian, but no one had told my mom that when she'd called to reserve the room. Eventually I convinced the clerk to get my mother on the phone, and Mom won the battle faster than you can say 'Jack Robinson'. She might be as calm and cool and sweet as can be most of the time, but believe me you do not want to piss that woman off. I'm pretty sure she could take on an entire army by herself if they threatened her family - and still have the energy to throw together dinner afterward.

By the time I finally got to my room, I was ready to drop into bed and not move again for at least half a day. But I was starving, too, and I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep with my stomach waging war against me. A quick glance at the room service menu nearly changed my mind -- bread and water there would cost more than the shoes I was wearing -- but then I remembered seeing a few fast food places just down the street. I didn't really want to wander out into the rain, but I didn't want to spend my lifesavings on dinner either. Eating junk out of a vending machine didn't seem like the best plan either. So, thanking my mother for insisting I pack for any eventuality, I fished a compact umbrella out of my suitcase, shoved my wallet in the front pocket of my jeans, and headed for the Golden Arches.

The rain, to my great surprise, had faded from torrential to just more than a steady drizzle. Grinning at my sudden good fortune, I opened the umbrella over my head and headed down the street.

Keep in mind that I was raised in a small rural town in East Texas. I never spent much time in the not-too-distant big cities of Dallas and Houston. I never even spent much time in the nearby smaller cities. Orlando was a new experience for me: a city with towering buildings, public transportation, a population 10 times that of my hometown, the largest theme park in the world...and crime. Violent crime. More than 10 times as much violent crime as in my hometown.

You do the math.

One minute I was walking happily down the side of the street near my hotel, the next I was curled on my side in the mud of an alley as some tall, skinny guy ran off with my wallet. I was scared and shaken, and I hurt. He hadn't pulled a knife or a gun, but he hadn't needed to; I'm kind of tall for a girl, but I'm also rail thin (no matter how much I eat -- my high school girlfriends hated me for that), so the guy could have crushed me with a stray thought. Instead he had jerked me into the alley, slammed me against a brick wall, and then thrown me to the ground. I'd fought him on instinct (definitely not because I thought I could beat him or because I was feeling especially brave), and he'd fought back. After he found my wallet, he'd kicked me a few times to make sure I stayed down, and then he'd run like hell.

I stayed down. I wasn't sure I could get up even if I tried. Broken and bleeding, I curled in on myself, aware more than ever of the itching, writhing sensation that had led me so far away from home to begin with.

Some time later, I felt gentle hands on me and heard a calm, reassuring voice asking if I was all right. What happened next was the last thing I would ever have expected. The itchy feeling changed and grew until it felt like my whole body was on fire. I looked up into the handsome, concerned face of the man who crouched beside me and something inside of me...blossomed. Not like a lotus. Not even like fire. More like a deadly, radiation-laden mushroom cloud.

Feelings that were foreign to me overwhelmed my senses - not only sight and taste and physical sensation, but my mind and spirit as well. Seemingly of its own volition, my hand rose to touch the man's cheek. I caressed his lightly-stubbled jaw and then slid my hand around to cradle the back of his head and pull him forward as I pushed myself up from the ground. We met somewhere in the middle, our lips touched, and then the kiss deepened.

I wish I could say that what happened next was a blur. That I couldn't remember. But some things you just don't forget, no matter how much you might want to. And I remember ever last detail as if it had happened only this morning, as if no time had passed at all.

I know that some people will be disappointed if I don't tell all the sordid details, but disappointed they'll have to be. Just because I can't forget that night doesn't mean I have to dredge it up and relive if for peoples' base amusement. Suffice it to say that the stranger in the alley took my virginity. And I took his life.

There's nothing quite as disconcerting as coming back to yourself after your first actual sex-with-another-person induced earthshaking orgasm to find a corpse lying beside you. Just looking at him, he appeared to be in perfect health - except for the fact that he was dead. Had I waited around for a police investigation, I would likely have found that his death was attributed to an aneurysm or some other vague and easily accepted cause. But I didn't wait around. I dragged my clothes back on and ran like hell.

Later, after I had scrubbed my skin raw in the shower, after I had cried for what felt like hours, and after I had finally, finally stopped shaking, it occurred to me that I should probably have shaken the corpse down, taken the guy's wallet. He wouldn't need cash anymore, after all, and I no longer had any way to buy food. Strangely enough, it was only after I mentally kicked myself for not robbing the dead guy blind that I had presence of mind enough to wish I'd listened to my Mom's warnings and not carried all my cash in one place.

Still freaking out, but also still starving, I dug loose change out of the pockets of my backpack and went in search of the vending machines. As I ate, I told myself that the guy's death hadn't had anything to do with me, and I carefully avoided wondering why my reaction to being beaten half to death had been to have sex with the first guy who came along.

A bag of chips and an overpriced Coke later, I was beginning to feel normal again. Too normal.

Looking down at my arms, I noticed that the bruises and scrapes from earlier were gone. Not faded. Gone. As if they had never happened at all. The ones on my legs were gone, too. I carefully prodded at my back, where the mugger had kicked me as I lay on the ground. No pain. My heart started racing as I peeled off my t-shirt, grabbed a compact from my suitcase, and went to stand in front of the mirror in the bathroom. My back to the big mirror, I angled the compact's mirror where I could see my back reflected in the larger mirror. No bruise. No nothing. Just pale, unmarked skin. I whirled to face the mirror, catching sight of my own fearfully-wide eyes. I looked like I had seen a ghost. Hell, I looked like a ghost myself, my skin even whiter than its usual pallor. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to force myself to calm down. When I opened my eyes again, still breathing deeply, I studied myself in the mirror, trying to see if I looked like someone guilty of seducing and murdering a stranger in a muddy alleyway. What I saw was just an unusually pretty teenaged girl with a black pixie cut framing her pale, heart-shaped face, her eyes just a little too wide (which could, I supposed, be mistaken for innocence). But as normal as the face in the mirror might be, the reflection staring back at me looked...not like a stranger exactly, but not like what I was used to seeing when I brushed my teeth at night. What I was seeing now was me, only better. I had never been _that_ pretty. And I had never had skin that clear.

What the hell?

At that point, I did what any normal, sane person would do. I rationalized.

My perceptions were just skewed because of the shock I'd received. Or maybe I was still in the alley after being mugged, and everything that happened after was just a pain-induced hallucination. Maybe I was dreaming. But probably it was just shock. I should go to bed. Things would look better in the morning.

Yeah, right.


	2. Chapter 2

Things did look better the next morning - right up until the moment that all of the events of that first night in Orlando came crashing back to me in vivid, horrifying detail and my eyes flew open

Things did look better the next morning - right up until the moment that all of the events of that first night in Orlando came crashing back to me in vivid, horrifying detail and my eyes flew open. I lay there for a while trying to make sense of everything that had happened and failing miserably. Eventually I channeled Scarlett O'Hara and pushed the scary memories into a dark corner of my mind and barricaded them in, telling myself I'd think about it all later when I had the strength to face it.

Resolutely thinking about anything but the strange events of the previous night, I rolled over, tugged the receiver from the phone, and placed a collect call to my Mom. I've never liked lying to my parents, but I couldn't tell her what had happened. Not any part of it, actually. So instead of telling her that I'd been mugged, I said I'd lost my wallet. She promised to get my credit card (her's and dad's really, even if it did have my name on it) cancelled right away and that she would find out how I could get home without a photo ID. She also told me she'd tucked a couple of twenties in between the pages of her Bible, which she'd made me take with me. And she never once said 'I told you so' or fussed at me for not following her advice. I have the most awesome Mom ever. I really, really do.

After I hung up the phone, I turned on the TV for background noise while I got ready for the day. After catching the weather report, I wished I'd thought to bring along shorts or capris despite it being the middle of February. People think Texas is always hot, but it's got nothing on Orlando. I'd left snow flurries behind, trading winter cold for what might pass for summer up north. I cursed my own lack of foresight as I rummaged through my suitcase, trying to find something that might not cause me to die of heat stroke. I ended up in a t-shirt Danielle had gotten for me at the Margaritaville gift shop when we'd gone with our youth group on a mission trip to Jamaica and a pair of loose-fitting tan cargo pants. My room key went into my right cargo pocket, my sunglasses on top of my head. Finally I retrieved the twenties, trying hard not to think about the Ten Commandments or the Seven Deadly Sins or anything else religious as I flipped through the pages of my Mom's old Bible.

Unsurprisingly, one of the bills marked Psalms 23, which had always been one of my favorite passages. Another marked John 3. The third and last marked James 5, where my mother had marked a a few verses with orange highlighter. My eyes were drawn to the part that read "And the prayer offered in faith will make the sick person well; the Lord will raise him up. If he has sinned, he will be forgiven."

I'd been raised in the church, and I believed in the Almighty. I even believed a lot of what I read in the Bible. But somehow I couldn't imagine that I could be forgiven for what I'd done the night before - that is, if I'd actually done anything and wasn't just hallucinating or something. Still, I figured it couldn't hurt to ask forgiveness. I slid to my knees on the threadbare carpet of my hotel room, rested my folded hands on the messy bed, bowed my head, and prayed. An age and a day later, I got up, blew my nose, washed the tears off my face, and stuffed one of the twenties in my front pocket. The other two bills went back into the Bible; I'd learned my lesson about keeping all my cash in the same place.

Downstairs, I asked the front desk agent (thankfully not the one from the night before) the easiest way to get to the Boardwalk Inn. Short of spending some of my small stash of cash on a taxi, the easiest way there involved the free hotel shuttle. I had to wait a while for the van to return, but at least the ride was in my price range. And the wait gave me time to grab food from the vending machines again, which was the best I could hope for since my hotel was both too cheap to spring for a free continental breakfast (which I'd have missed anyway, since I slept so late) and too pretentious for me to be able to afford either room service or the hotel's cafe

I have no idea how long the van ride to the Boardwalk actually lasted, but it seemed like forever. Especially with the group of boisterous pre-teens loudly singing what might have been Britney Spears songs. Or maybe it was Hannah Montana. Something annoying, anyway.

Long before we got to the Boardwalk, I found myself wishing that my parents and I could have afforded for me to stay at the Boardwalk Inn or one of the nearby hotels. But my family's never had a lot of extra cash, and my parents hadn't wanted me to work until after I graduated high school. Even then I'd only been working part-time for a family friend while I investigated my birth parents. The cheap hotel I was staying in and the airfare from Texas to Orlando was just about all we could handle.

Eventually we arrived at the Boardwalk, a part of Disney World modeled after turn-of-the-century Atlantic boardwalks. It's got some food stands, a restaurant or two, a couple of bars, a handful of shops, and the Boardwalk Inn. The Inn is a gorgeous upscale hotel that costs more per night than most people I know make in a week. Or two. And in it was the reason I'd come halfway across the continent. Or so I hoped.

Taking a deep, bracing breath, I strolled into the Inn, trying not to look like a gawking tourist. I probably failed miserably, but no one seemed to notice or care. The front desk agent was busy with a customer, so I lurked in the overwhelmingly large and opulent lobby. Soon enough the customer moved on, and I made my way to the front desk.

I gave the rather cute guy behind the counter what I hoped was a disarming smile and said, "I'm looking for Dee Ramos."

The guy swallowed very slowly. He looked kind of stunned. "Uh...who?" he managed to stammer after a while.

"Dee Ramos."

"Oh," he replied, shaking his head slightly as if to clear it. "Is she a guest?"

"No, she works here. Or she did."

"We have a lot of employees here," he said. "But my supervisor might know something or at least be able to find out something for you."

"Can I speak with your supervisor, then?"

"Yeah. Just have a seat over there," he said, using his whole hand to point toward a group of comfortable looking chairs and couches, "and I'll tell her you're here."

Almost half an hour later, a rather short, slightly overweight woman approached me. She had kind eyes and a warm smile, and she spoke to several of the Inn's guests as she crossed the room.

"Dolores Gregory," she said, extending her hand to me. I rose and shook it.

"Jordan Parker."

We exchanged the usual nice-to-meet-yous, and then she asked what she could do for me.

"I'm looking for someone who works here, or used to work here. It's kind of a complicated story, but I think she might know my mother," I explained. "Her name is Dee Ramos."

I don't know what I thought would happen then, but I know I wasn't expecting the woman to make the sign of the cross and whisper 'ay dios mio.' She sank down into the chair beside mine and stared at me, her eyes wide.

Confused, I sat back down and let her stare. After a moment, she said, "Saint Cecilia's. 1989."

It was my turn to stare in shock. St. Cecilia's was the church where I'd been abandoned when I was a baby, way back in 1989.

"You're Dee?" I asked.

Dolores smiled. "To my friends, yes. Ramos was my maiden name."

"You were the one who took me to the church." I studied Dolores, my only clue to the bizarre mystery of the strange occurrences of the past year and my only link to my birth parents.

"Yes. I knew we would be safe inside the church, and I was right. And yes, I left you there, but I didn't abandon you. I kept in touch..."

"With Mrs. Cruz," I said, putting the pieces together. "She's the one who told me where to find you."

"She helped me come to the decision to leave you at the church. She made sure you stayed safe, and she found a family to adopt you. She never told me more than that, but I knew that if you had a family - a good family - you would be just fine."

I wasn't sure what to say to that. I settled for asking, "What did you mean when you said you knew we'd be safe there, at the church?"

Dolores glanced around the lobby and then looked back at me. "I should get back to work," she said. Before I could protest, she added, "I want to talk to you, Jordan, but now is not the time or place. Can you meet me here after I get off from work?"

"Of course," I said. As if I'd say 'no'.

"I get off at 7. Meet me here in the lobby. I'll buy you dinner, and we can talk," she said, standing even before she finished speaking.

I said I'd see her at 7, and then I just sat for a minute while I tried to figure out what to do next. I'd slept kind of late; add to that the forever-long shuttle trip, the brief conversation with Dolores, and lots of waiting, and it was rather late into the afternoon. I only had a few hours to kill, so I decided to explore the Boardwalk.

The French doors opposite the ones I'd entered through let out on a balcony. A few people lounged in the wicker chairs and rockers there, enjoying the mild Florida climate. I ignored them and headed directly for the steps leading down to the courtyard below.

A gift shop, an arcade, and an art gallery lay on one side of the courtyard. A restaurant - which I felt sure had to be far outside of my budget - sat on the opposite side; the Inn occupied the third side of the courtyard, and on the fourth side lay the actual boardwalk which borders a sizable lagoon. Across the water, I could see Epcot's giant golf ball, which I as an uber-nerd knew is actually called 'Spaceship Earth'. Concession kiosks and carnival games peppered the weathered boards, and a lone surrey filled with laughing tourists ambled along the long walkway, dodging pedestrians as it rolled along.

At the edge of the courtyard, I paused to look left and right along the boardwalk. Not knowing what was what - or where, for that matter - I headed right first, since the walkway to the left seemed to go on forever and the one to the right was far shorter. I found nothing to interest me, though, and meandered back past the courtyard to poke around in the gift shop. Half an hour later, I had seen everything the shop had to offer and hoped to never see anything else featuring perky princesses. Beyond the gift shop, I found only a restaurant, what appeared to be some sort of vacation condos, and a couple of bars.

All too aware of the huge amount of time I had left to kill, I followed the walkway and a line of tourists away from the Boardwalk to a couple of nearby hotels. Like the Boardwalk Inn, the Swan and Dolphin made my hotel look fairly pathetic. I spent some time sitting and staring at the swan fountain, browsed the gift shops, and then gave the whole exploration thing up as a lost cause. The whole experience was, in a word, boring. Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if I'd had money to spend, or if I wasn't making a constant effort to block out the events of the previous night while simultaneously trying to not wonder too much about Dolores, or if I'd had my friend Danielle there to help me mock the more ill-advised products on display. Or if I hadn't been quite so painfully aware of the way many of the men who passed near me stopped to stare - and of the answering hunger rising inside of me.

I spent a little of my stash of money on a paperback at one of the shops, cursing the overly huge profit margin that's so much a part of tourist destinations, and headed back to the Inn. I settled myself down in one of those comfy wicker rocking chairs on the Inn's balcony with my book and essentially hid from the world around me. I couldn't keep my mind on my book, though, and ended up checking my watch obsessively until a quarter til seven, at which point I went inside the Inn and found a seat in the lobby.

Less than fifteen minutes passed before Dolores appeared, beckoning me from across the room. We walked outside together, and as we descended the steps leading from the balcony down to the Boardwalk proper, she asked me, "Is pizza okay?"

I gave her a look that said 'I'm a teenager; what do you think?' and she smiled at me. We turned right at the bottom of the steps and then right again when we reached the Boardwalk's main walkway. The area near the Inn there was under construction, but there was a gap in the middle of it all where people were buying pizza and sodas.

Dolores ordered us a slice and a soda each, then waited for the pizza while I took the drinks to a table near the water's edge.

I leaned against the wrought-iron table and stared across the lagoon at Spaceship Earth, contemplating how very little interest Disney World had for me now. When I'd set out for Orlando, I'd been excited about exploring the Disney parks - especially Epcot, which I'd dreamed of visiting since I was a little kid. Considering the nightmare my life had become in the last twenty-four hours, I suppose it made sense that all I wanted at this point was to get my answers and get as far away from this place as I could.

Dolores appeared with pizza, pulling me out of my dark thoughts.

"We can't really talk here," she said. "Not about anything important. We'll eat, and then we'll go down to Jellyrolls and talk there."

"Isn't that a bar?" I asked between bites of cheese-laden ambrosia. "I mean, I'm not old enough to go in, I don't think. And I lost my wallet..."

"I know people," she assured me with a grin. "We'll be able to get in."


	3. Chapter 3

Dee was right, of course, and after we finished eating, we strolled down the Boardwalk to a large, white building proclaiming itself to be a dueling piano and sing-along bar

Dee was right, of course, and after we finished eating, we strolled down the Boardwalk to a large, white building proclaiming itself to be a dueling piano and sing-along bar. I'd never been in a bar before, and it seemed a shame that my first experience would be under such weird circumstances - and in a piano bar, which I pictured as being a lounge with some sleazy guy playing Frank Sinatra songs for old people.

Once we'd made it past the bouncers - me with a huge permanent marker X on the back of both hands - we stepped from the foyer into the main part of the bar. My first impression of Jellyrolls involved piped-in music, dim lighting along the walls, and lots of hard wood. Long bars took up the walls to my far right and left, tall tables with stools ranged along the walkway leading from the front door to the bars, and directly ahead of me lay a sunken floor surrounded by a heavy oak bar. We descended the steps and took seats at one of the tables near the stage where two baby grand pianos stood, inconspicuous in a shroud of shadow.

A server came to talk to us at once. He offered us popcorn and took our drink orders (a Coke for me and something called a 'Yellow Brick Road' for Dolores). He was friendly and attentive, but not too attentive. I relaxed a little, glad to finally be around a man who wasn't looking at me like I was some tasty treat. I had begun to think that all the men in Orlando were unmitigated pervs. The server brought our drinks and a massive stack of cocktail napkins, chatted with Dolores for a couple of minutes, and then wandered back to the bar, leaving us alone to talk. Dolores stared into her drink, stirring it with her straw. A moment later, she began to speak.

"I met Nicky - your mother - on the first day of our junior year of high school. She'd just moved to Apopka - that's a little town just outside of Orlando - to live with her aunt. Her parents were killed by a drunk driver, and Nicky's aunt Carla took her in." She paused to take a drink, her eyes sad and far away. "Nicky never got along with her aunt. Carla was...a difficult woman. They fought all the time. So Nicky spent a lot of time at my house. We were best friends.

"Things only got worse instead of better between Nicky and Carla. So when Nicky ran off to Miami for Spring Break and then didn't come home, everyone thought she'd run away. I felt like she would have confided in me, but I told myself she must have met someone special down there, that she was living the high life, happy and safe.

"She did meet someone down there. And after a couple of months, she came home and brought him with her. She introduced him as a friend, but I thought maybe he was more than that. And I certainly couldn't blame her if he was...the guy was beautiful, and rich, and fun to be around. The kind of guy that you only see in movies, you know? Perfect. Too perfect.

"The guy only hung around for a couple of weeks. He set her up in an apartment, gave her some money, and then split. Right after that, she came to me and told me she was pregnant. I moved in with Nicky, and my mom helped her get a job; between the two of us and the money Thomas had given your mom, we figured we could get by fine, even with a baby on the way."

"Thomas?" I interrupted. "That's my dad?"

"Thomas Raith," Dolores said, "is the guy who showed up with your mom. Whether he's your dad, I don't really know. His name's on your birth certificate, but later on your mom said some things that made me wonder if he was really your dad. I just don't know."

I frowned. "What things?"

Dolores sighed. "I don't really remember, to be honest. It all happened a very long time ago. And we were trashed on tequila, too." She tilted her glass at me in a kind of salute and took a deep drink.

I leaned forward against the table, resting my chin in my hand, thinking about what Dolores had told me so far and waiting for the rest of the story.

"I do remember that Nicky seemed worried about anyone finding out about your father. She thought that someone would try to take you away from her." She stopped, leaning forward to put her hand on my shoulder. "She loved you so much, Jordan."

I felt tears stinging my eyes. Even though I'd grown up with a great family, it still felt good to know my birth mother had loved me.

The good-looking server came by to check on us, then came back a few minutes later to bring Dolores a fresh drink. She smiled and thanked him, then checked her watch and sighed. Her eyes flickered to a man who was bumping around on the stage doing who-knows-what. "Not much time," she said. She took a deep breath and jumped back into her story.

"Turned out your mom had reason to worry. Someone did try to take you. You were about 4 months old, I think. I came home from work and your mom had locked herself in the bathroom with you, my rosary, and a butcher knife. I thought she'd gone crazy, but when she calmed down enough to talk, she said someone had tried to snatch you. The knife and the locked door made a lot more sense to me then." Dolores smiled at me. "I did take the knife away from her, though. Your mom with a sharp object always scared me, even when she wasn't hysterical."

I laughed. The sound echoed through the empty bar, drawing the attention of both other patrons - a pair of college-aged boys in flip-flips and bermuda shorts. They stared for a few seconds, and then turned back to their beers.

"Mom - my adopted mom, I mean - says the same thing about me," I said. "She won't let me near anything sharp."

Dolores grinned. "I have a son like that; he could cut himself on a rubber ball.

"Anyway, when that guy tried to snatch you, your mom decided that she had to run. And she convinced me that she was right. We packed what we needed for the three of us: food, clothes, and baby stuff. We were ready to run before midnight, but your mom insisted we wait for daylight before leaving. She said there were things in the dark that would try to interfere. I wasn't sure if she was talking-crazy or not, but I figured it couldn't hurt to wait for sunrise. In my experience, more bad things happen at night, and we needed whatever advantages we could get.

"So at first light, we loaded up the car and left town. We didn't have a lot of money, but we figured we did have enough to get us to New Mexico. That's where your mom was from, and she thought she could track down her parents' best friends and get their help. The plan was for her to stay with them and convince them to loan me enough money to get back to Orlando.

"But we never made it that far. Strange things started happening somewhere in Louisiana. Around New Orleans, actually. At first, I chalked it up to my own imagination. After all, what better place for ghost stories than New Orleans? But by the time we reached the Texas border, I was certain I wasn't imagining things.

"We saw people from the corner of our eyes, but they would disappear when we turned to look at them. We heard odd noises. We had problems with the car and with my ATM card. And then right outside of Houston, we hit a guy who was standing in the middle of the highway.

"I completely freaked out, slammed on the brakes. I was trying to put the car in park so I could get out and see if the guy was alive, but your mom screamed at me to go. When I saw the guy pick himself up off the asphalt and start walking toward the car, I panicked and stomped down on the accelerator. That's probably the only thing that saved us. If I had hesitated, the car wouldn't have gotten up to speed before that guy did. He nearly caught us as it was."

"Superhuman speed," I said, thinking about the time I'd saved Ellen Hightower from getting hit by a semi.

Dolores crossed herself. "And it didn't even surprise your mom. Not one bit.

"Once we got away from that guy - or whatever he was - your mom decided we should change course. The next time we stopped for gas, we picked up a map. She didn't even tell me where we were headed, just gave me turn-by-turn directions until we got out onto Interstate 45. A few hours later, we drove into Dallas.

"We stopped for fast food there on the Interstate, and then found a motel for the night. I got us checked in while your mom waited with you in the car with the doors locked. I was so scared that I'd come out and you'd be gone or hurt. But you were both there, and you were fine. I drove around the motel to our room, just like the guy had showed me on his little map. Your mom took the key and went to unlock the room while I got you out of the car."

Dolores flagged down the waiter and ordered a shot of tequila. He brought it; she shot it and chased it with a couple of sips of her yellow drink. She checked her watch again. "Five minutes. I'll make this short. It's better that way, anyway," she said.

"I always had a hard time getting your carrier to come loose from the base. Every single time. It drove your mom crazy. We never thought it could be a good thing.

"I was fighting with the car seat when I heard your mom yelling. It took a moment for her words to sink it; she was yelling 'Dee, get her out of here!' Before I had time to do anything, your mom came running out of the shadows, but she couldn't outrun whatever it was that chased her. He grabbed her, pulling her right off the ground, and flung her across the parking lot. She bounced off the car next to mine, and I screamed.

"You're not supposed to move someone who's been badly injured, but that didn't even cross my mind. All I knew was I wasn't leaving her for that guy. I just grabbed her and dragged her into the car. I wasn't even sure if she was alive, but it didn't matter.

"It took a minute for the guy to figure out what was going on, and then he headed right for us. I threw myself in the front seat, jammed the key in and fired up that old Chrysler. The whole trip from Florida, we bitched about that big old boat and how much gas it guzzled, but to this day I won't buy an economy car. Turns out big old Chryslers are good for running over things. I backed into the bastard who'd hurt your mom, jammed the car into gear and took off."

Lights illuminated the stage, then, and two men - one youngish with sandy hair and one older with a white beard and a Hawaiian shirt - sat down at the pianos. They said hello to Dolores and then started chatting with a little old couple at another table.

Dolores barely acknowledged the guys on stage before turning to me again. "I got your mom to a hospital, but I didn't feel safe there. I figured if that guy could follow us all the way from Florida, he could follow us from the Motel 6. I left her at the hospital, took you, and ran. When I saw St. Cecelia's, I just got this feeling. I felt like we'd be safe inside the church. You know the rest of the story from there - I left you with Mrs. Cruz and went back to Orlando, and you went on to become Jordan Parker."

I sat back in my chair, Dee's story chasing itself in circles in my mind, barely aware of the two guys on the stage as they began to actually play music. Super human strength. Super human speed. Strange happenings that weren't nearly as hard for me to believe as they should have been.

Dolores flagged down the hot waiter for another drink, and I wondered how she'd get home later.

The song ended, and I leaned nearer to Dee to ask her if she knew anything else about Thomas Raith. "Have you heard from him, maybe? Or did my mom have an address or a phone number?"

"No, sweetie, nothing," she said, raising her voice to be heard over the entertainers' banter. She gave me an awkward, one-armed hug, and I could see tears in her eyes. I hugged her and then sat back in my chair, letting the people around me claim my attention.

Some lady in the back of the bar - when had the place started filling up? - yelled out "Jimmy Buffett!" The younger of the two men on stage said something along the lines of "We can do that," and the guys launched into a rousing rendition of 'Cheeseburger in Paradise.' For some reason, it struck me funny that I'd been so wrong about this place: Jimmy Buffett instead of Frank Sinatra played by two of the three least sleazy guys I'd run across in Orlando.

Maybe Jellyrolls generated a kind of magic, or maybe my overtaxed mind just couldn't handle any more stress or angst, but whatever the reason I found myself clapping and singing right along with the rest of the bar. For a little while, I could forget about the weird horror-story turn my life had taken and just be me again.

A few songs later, the guys played an archaic song - something from the fifties, maybe - and Dee dragged me away from the table to dance with her. I guess I had failed to warn her that I danced about as well as Keanu Reeves acts. Not that she noticed, drunk as she was.

Unfortunately, one of the drunk college boys noticed and thought it would be a good idea to show me some moves. Even though I didn't find the guy very attractive, him touching me sent a shock right through me. The rolling itch built again, only now it felt more like something alive under my skin that wanted to claw its way out. I looked up at the guy's face and saw nothing but raw lust there, and I got really scared really fast. I didn't want to kill this guy - especially not in front of a bar full of witnesses. I shoved him away and fled, moving toward the nearest set up steps.

I noticed a bouncer standing by the steps near the stage, and asked her where to find the ladies room. She directed me to a door at the top of the steps and gave me directions I couldn't really hear over the music. I thanked her and ducked through the door.

The plain wooden door opened on a hallway. Several doors lined the hall, but as I stood there staring around me and trying to get myself back under control I saw a pack of girls come through one of the doors and head back toward the main bar area. Before I could even put one foot in front of the other, the door beside me opened, bumping into my arm and throwing me off balance.

Strong hands steadied me, and I looked up - way up - into the bluest eyes I'd ever seen.

"Are you okay?" Mr. Right asked me. "I didn't mean to hit you."

"I'm fine," I answered. I lied. The alien under my skin struggled harder, and I licked my lips. He seemed mesmerized by the sight of my tongue.

I'd like to say that I ran away again, that I could control myself that much. I didn't, and I couldn't. Instead, I moved closer to him, resting my hands on his broad, warm chest and looking up at him. He threaded a hand through my hair to tilt my head back and leaned down to press his lips to mine. I threw my arms around him and kissed him back, hard. There was heat and lust and warm, wet mouths, and then there was pain - lots and lots of pain. I jerked away, my hand rising to my mouth which now stung as if burned. I glanced up at the man again, wondering if I looked as shell-shocked as he did, and then turned and fled to the ladies room.

Two ladies stood in front of the mirrors, bitching about one of their boyfriends, so I ducked past them into the handicapped stall. I leaned against the stall door for a long moment before moving to look at myself in the mirror. Small blisters ringed my mouth. I really had been burned.

And just like that, my holiday from my horror-flick life ended. I leaned against the sink, shaking. I would have sunk to the floor and curled up in a ball, but even in the state I was in that seemed like a bad idea. Beyond that, my thoughts existed in a tangled jumble.

Strangely enough, the music, piped in from the pianos out front, cut through the chaos in my mind. I recognized the hopeful words and mournful melody of an old Styx song, carried by a voice that I knew didn't belong to either of the guys who had been on the stage earlier. Whoever was now singing had the voice of an angel, a voice that added a strange lustfulness to the hope and sadness the song inspired in me.

I needed to leave, right then. But how the hell could I explain the weird blisters to Dee? Maybe she'd be too drunk to notice them. I'd drag her out of the bar, get her to call us a cab, and get back to my hotel room without killing anyone.

I took a deep breath and then did just that, though I managed to notice on my way out that the beautiful voice belonged to the man I'd mauled in the hallway. He seemed to be just fine. I said a little prayer thanking God for that as I led Dolores out into the chilly night air.


	4. Chapter 4

I made it back to my hotel room around midnight. I would have been back sooner, but Dee insisted on showing me the apartment complex where she and my mom lived, the restaurant where my mom had waitressed, and the hospital where I was born. I don't even want to know how much that cab ride ended up costing her. After she paid the driver, she kept hugging me and making me promise to stay in touch. She gave me her number and pressed a bill in my hand, insisting on paying for my ride back to the hotel. It wasn't until I handed the bill to the driver that I noticed it was a fifty - far more than the cost of my fare. I knew it was Dee's way of trying to help look out for me, and it made me feel happy and sad all at once.

I let myself into my hotel room, wondering if Mama had found out how I could get home without my ID. I wondered, too, if I could change my flight and my hotel situation so I could get the hell out of Orlando.

The light blinked on my phone. I had a message from my mom, telling me she had faxed a copy of my passport - the one I'd gotten for my mission trip - to the hotel; apparently the airlines deal with lost IDs all the time, and I just needed to let them know what was going on. My second message was, predictably, from the front desk, telling me I had a fax.

I thought about going and getting the fax. I thought about calling my mom back. I ended up dialing my best friend's number instead - collect, of course.

She didn't answer.

A million horrible scenarios flashed through my mind, along with a dozen or so fairly pleasant explanations for why my newly married best friend wasn't home to take my call. Probably she and her husband, Rob, were out to dinner or at a movie. Still, with the way my luck had been running, I wanted to be sure. I called the one person who was most likely to know for certain if anything bad had happened - Dani's brother, Ben.

He answered on the second ring accepted the charges, and immediately asked, "What's wrong sweetie?"

I told him about trying to call Dani, and that I couldn't help worrying.

"You should probably be worried for her sanity," he told me. "She and Rob are spending the weekend in San Antonio with that bitchy sister of his."

"The bleach-blonde psychopath?" I asked.

"Worse, the formerly bleach-blonde now fire-engine-redheaded psychopath. Only they're called sociopaths these days, honey."

I laughed. Ben always knew what to say to make me feel better. He claimed to be an empath, and I wasn't sure that I didn't believe him.

"Anyway, what else is bothering you, sweetie? You're not usually much of a worrier."

"I found out some stuff. And some weird things...bad things have been happening."

"Bad things? What bad things?"

"It's kind of hard to explain," I replied. I sat down on the bed, kicked off my shoes, and scooted up to sit against the headboard with my knees drawn up to my chest. "I really hate it here though. I want to come home."

"Then come home," Ben said.

"It isn't that simple. My flight isn't for three more days, and the hotel's reserved until then, too. And I lost my ID, and I don't have the credit card we used for the room reservation...." I started crying, and I wasn't sure I'd be able to stop.

"Jordan, sweetie, calm down," Ben said. His voice soothed me, but his next words salved my heart. "I'll take care of everything, okay? But you've got to work with me. I need you to be able to see to do that, so dry your eyes, all right?"

I nodded. Then I realized he couldn't see me. "Okay," I muttered.

"Good girl. I need some info. Let's start with your flight reservation and go from there."

He gathered as much information as he could from me - airline, flight number, hotel name and room number, and a bunch of other stuff - so that he could get me home. He promised to call me as soon as the he finalized the arrangements.

After we hung up, I grabbed a quick shower and then wandered down to the front desk to pick up my fax. I swung by the vending machines on my way back to my room. I was sitting on the bed munching Doritos, drinking Dr Pepper, and watching bad music videos when Ben called me back. I felt like cheering when he said I'd be flying to Houston in less than 8 hours. After I hung up with him, I actually did a little happy dance. It felt good to be silly, if only for a moment.

As it turns out, my mom was right. Getting through security and onto my flight home wasn't a really big deal. Surviving the flight with my sanity intact proved to be an entirely different matter.

Before we'd even left the ground, the guy sitting next to me was salivating and staring. The alien under my skin reared its head again, and I did the only thing I knew to do - I hugged Mama's Bible to me, closed my eyes, and prayed. It didn't keep the guy from staring at me, but it helped me to fight the urge to pounce on him. As soon as the fasten seatbelt sign went off, I fled to the bathroom. I stayed there for most of the flight home, making some lame excuse to the flight attendant who came to ask if I was okay. I didn't come out until the pilot asked everyone to return to their seats. Then I hugged that Bible again and went back to praying.

It was the longest two hours of my life.

As soon as possible, I grabbed my carry-on and headed for baggage claim. Ben was waiting for me there, and I ran to him and threw myself into his arms, like they do in cheesy romance movies. He hugged me hard.

"What's wrong?" he asked me.

I shook my head. "Let's just get out of here. We can talk in the car, okay?"

I ignored everything after that except for Ben and the luggage carousel. I grabbed my bag when it came around, and Ben immediately took it from me. He led me through the airport and to the garage where he'd parked.

"Spill," he said, after he'd backed out of his space but before he even put the car into forward gear.

"In a minute," I said. I wanted to bask in my sudden but not unexpected reprieve from weirdness. I didn't feel the need to pounce on Ben, thank goodness, and he didn't seem to feel the need to stare at me and drool. I'd never thought of Ben as anything more than yet another older brother, and he'd never drooled over any girl, ever. Unless you count Rosario Dawson in Rent, and I mean, who didn't drool over her? I leaned back and closed my eyes for a few minutes as we moved out of the parking lot and into the Houston freeway system.

"Okay," I said at last, forcing my eyes open again. "So...you believe in ghosts and shit, right?"

Ben spared a second to glance at me, his face showing open shock. Thinking about it, I realized he'd probably never heard me swear before. He shook it off in the next second, his eyes back on the road. "The paranormal. Sure."

"And you've read a lot of stuff about it, right?"

"Where are you going with this, hon?"

"I have a story to tell you. About my mom. I need to know what you think about it. It's pretty fu..freakin' weird."

"Honey, if you listen to my parents, _I'm_ pretty freakin' weird. Shoot."

So as Ben weaved in and out of Houston traffic, I told him Dee's story about my mom.

"That's pretty creepy," he said. "People with superhuman strength and speed. Could be all sorts of things, if you believe in the paranormal. You think this Thomas guy is your dad?"

"I don't know. Dolores didn't either. But he did know my mom, and if he's not my dad, maybe he at least knows who is."

"Why's this so important to you, honey? Ray and Sarah have been your parents for 19 years. Why look for your birth parents now?"

I sighed and looked out my window. "Last year, I saved a kid's life. You remember Jenny Graves?" He nodded, and I went on. "Only she's Jenny Hightower now. It was her daughter, Ellen. She nearly got hit by an 18-wheeler. But I tackled her out of the way."

"Wow," Ben said. "That's real hero stuff, Jordan." He sounded proud, and I couldn't help smiling a little.

"Yeah, well. The weird thing is, when I saw her, the truck was closer to her than I was."

Ben hesitated a moment before saying anything. "You mean it looked like it was closer."

"No, I mean it was closer. Not by much, maybe, but there's no way I should have been able to reach her in time."

"Holy shit," Ben breathed.

"That's not the only weird thing that's happened to me, either, Benny. And I'm really fucking scared," I said. I was crying again, but I didn't much care. "And I thought maybe if I found my parents, maybe they could explain some of this stuff."

"I...I have no idea what to say," Ben said. He was quiet for a moment, and then added, "But you know, I know someone who might can help. Well, I know someone that knows someone that knows _of_ someone who might can help."

I couldn't help it - I laughed.

"Yeah, I know it sounds complicated, but it's really not. See my friend Stacy, she's really deep into this new-age paranormal witchcraft stuff. And her friend - I can never remember that girl's name - is even deeper into it. Anyway, the friend was telling Stacy and me about this investigator up in Chicago who claims to be an honest-to-God wizard."

"A wizard?" I asked. "He thinks he's Gandalf or something?"

"I guess," Ben replied. "Anyway, he supposedly uses spells and stuff to track missing people and objects and whatnot. Apparently, he's even worked with the police up there. I'd think if anyone could find your possibly paranormal father, it'd be a wizard, right?"

The idea should have sounded crazy. Instead, it sounded like a miracle.


End file.
